Traveling Solider
by datawolf39
Summary: Based on the song of the same name, by Dixie Chicks. It's a really sad song, but really love it and it gave me the idea for this fic. Slash. John is a solider and Sherlock just wants him home.
1. Waiting on a plane

**I wrote this a while ago and I just finished it. not the best thing that I have written, but I think it's okay. As the description said, this was inspired by the song, let me know if you can spot the references I put in.**

"...delayed for two hours due to maintenance. I repeat flight number,,,"

John ignored the remainder of the, almost mechanical sounding woman, repeating message. It was just his luck that his flight was delayed. With a sigh, he rose from his seat, gripped his duffel bag in his left hand and pulled it up until it rested on his shoulder. He looked around the airport and found a little restaurant that didn't seem to be too busy. Seeing that this might be his last chance for interactions with civilians, at least for a while, he decided to go in and order a coffee. He was more of a tea drinker, as cliché as it was, but he had found that restaurants often had horrible tea. At the very least, he would get to talk to the server.

The place was rather small, but still gave off a comfortable vibe. There was self-seating and he took a booth with a window allowed him to view people waiting for their luggage. He was rather lost in thought until he heard someone clearing their throat.

John blushed, and took a look at the waiter. The man was dressed in a rather posh suit with a bow tie, that clashed with the white waiter's apron that he wore. His eyes were a shade that brought the color aquamarine to mind, and atop his head were fluffy, dark, curls.

"I'm sorry," John said. "Umm... I'll have a coffee please," he said. The man studied him for a bit and then simply walked away. For a moment, John wondered if he had even taken his order seeing as he hadn't written it down. Several minutes later, however, the dark-haired man was back with a pot of coffee, a white cup, and a little bowl with creamer pods. John started to fix his first cup of coffee, when, on impulse, he asked a question. "If it's not any trouble would you mind sitting down for a while and talking to me?"

The man studied him once again, and John regretted asking the question, that was, until the man spoke. "I get off in an hour." he said abruptly in a pleasantly deep voice, and then he walked away.

'Well I guess that is that,' John thought as he sipped his coffee. He nursed the last cup. Long ago having paid for his beverage, until he saw the waiter coming back. This time the apron was gone and he had on a black leather jacket. He paused at John's booth and gave him a questioning gaze.

John stood up and walked out of the airport with him. They walked for several minutes before coming to a park. The dark-haired man sat on a swing and John sat on the one beside him.

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" Came the question.

"Excuse me?"

"You are a doctor that is serving in the military, an interesting contrast by the way, both healer and killer, you were at the airport waiting to be shipped off, either to start your first tour or to participate in one last training mission. In any case, you are going to be deployed into a combat zone soon, so I ask again is it to be Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"That was...amazing," John said completely taken in by the words of the stranger. "We don't even know each others names and yet you know so much about me."

The dark-haired male smiled. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

John couldn't help smiling back. "Well, Mister Sherlock Holmes, my name is John Watson and I am heading off for a month long training before being deployed to Afghanistan. How did you know all that stuff about me anyway?"

"I'm extremely observant," Sherlock answered.

"Well I think that it amazing, you really should be a detective or something instead of working in that airport restaurant."

"I'm going to be a Consulting Detective, but right now I need the money to pay rent."

"That sounds interesting."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look that made John wonder what others had said when Sherlock had told them of his aspirations.

John looked at his watch and realized that he would have to leave soon. 'Just my luck I would meet someone interesting at a time like this'. "Hey I know we just met and all, but I was wondering if I could write to you sometime?" John asked quietly. He wondered what it said about him that this was the most fun interaction that he had, had for some time.

Sherlock studied him in that way that he had. "Wouldn't the usual candidates for writing be your family?"

John grimaced. "I really don't have much in the way as far as family is concerned. Never mind, just forget I asked. I wasn't thinking about how much of an inconvenience that it would be for you, especially if you are with someone. I can already imagine coming back after a tour of duty and getting shot by a jealous lover."

"It would be no inconvenience to have you write to me as I am not with anyone; relationships are not really my area."

John looked at him in surprise. "That's a shame. You have looks and brains, so you'd be quite the catch."

Sherlock released a half-startled laugh and John smiled, he had a feeling that it was rather hard to surprise this Sherlock Holmes.

Another look at his watch said that it was time to start heading back. "Well I have to go now. It was nice meeting you. " John said getting off the swing.

A piece of paper was then shoved into his hand, afterward Sherlock vacated his own swing and walked away. John frown and then opened the paper and saw a hastily scrawled address and underneath it was the name Sherlock Holmes.

John smiled at the slightly overcast sky, and thanked fate that his flight had been delayed.


	2. Letters

Sherlock had just reached his flat after working his shift at the airport, when he saw the letter in the mailbox. He pulled it out and was surprised to find himself smiling as he held the envelope. He had not forgotten about the conversation that he had shared with John and he was somewhat happy that the other man had remembered as well.

It was no secret that Sherlock was hard to get along with. He had been fired from many a job for that reason, which was why he typically didn't speak at his current place of employment. That was a tough thing to do, but he needed to pay the rent.

When he got into his flat, he threw his coat on the sofa and did the same with himself, then he opened the letter. Not even he, however, had the foresight to know that by the single act of opening that letter he would start a correspondence that would last for more than four years.

* * *

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _This is John Watson. I wonder, do you even remember me?_

 _Now that I think about it, it's rather shocking that you just gave your address to a complete stranger. You should be more careful._

 _Sorry that it took so long to write. It's been what a week? or maybe two weeks by the time you read this? But my reason is that this last training is absolutely brutal. I think actual combat may be easier than what they have us doing in the camp.*sigh* (Just so you know I did sigh as I wrote this part, several times in fact. I meant that sighed several times, I didn't write this letter several tim_

 _Anyway, what's been happening with you? Have you gotten closer to your dream? I know that it's only been about two weeks, but I feel like if anyone could make things happen in that amount of time, it would be you. I feel like I am getting sappy so I'll sign off here. I eagerly await your reply._

 _Best regards,_

 _John Watson_

* * *

 _ **Dear John,**_

 _ **I remember you and I would prefer to be addressed by first name since the name Mister Holmes reminds me of the way my father was addressed. I will have you know, that I do not waste time with simply anyone, and many know my address I simply added one to the list. As for not contacting me sooner, I went into this understanding that contact would be sporadic at best.**_

 _ **As far as my dream, as you put it, I helped with a case not long ago, it was a minor robbery, but I hope that it will get me more chances to help with cases.**_

 _ **If you are allowed, when you arrive in Afghanistan send me some soil samples or a rock, it might help with an experiment.**_

 _ **Signed,**_

 _ **Sherlock Holmes**_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I am writing this on my last night at the training camp so by the time that you write back I'll likely be deployed. Thanks for understanding about how sporadic communication will be. I would be happy to send you soil and a rock, if possible. You have no idea how entertained I was by your request. I think that I few of the guys here thought I was crazy due to my three minute laugh session._

 _Also, congratulations on getting your foot in the door with law enforcement. I knew that you could do it. In your next letter give me the details you can share about the robbery and if you assist on another case I would love to hear about it._

 _Well it's getting late so I'll sign off here. Oh and I added the new information to address the letters with._

 _Sincerely,_

 _John Watson_

* * *

 _ **Dear John,**_

 _ **I am pleased that I can be a source of amusement for you.**_

 _ **As for the details of the robbery. There was very few interesting components to the case. Well there was the fact that the thief was stealing stuffed bears, but surely you would not be interested in that. As for more cases, a new DI has joined Scotland Yard and he seems to have more brains than the other beings in the force. I suspect he sees the assistance that I can offer because he consults me on cold cases from time to time.**_

 _ **I look forward to the rock and the soil.**_

 _ **Signed,**_

 _ **Sherlock Holmes**_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I am happy that you are pleased to amuse me. I really needed that at the time too._

 _Enclosed is a bag of soil and a rock. I hope they help with whatever it is that you are doing since I got laughed at when the boys saw me packing it up. It saddens me that you do not look forward to my letters, but I suppose your genius intellect is not too stimulated by my boring letters. Well at least you write back, so until you stop I will infer that I haven't bored you too much._

 _By the way I want more details on that 'minor robbery'. A thief targeting teddy bears sounds like a good story and I would like to hear how they were caught._

 _Good luck with that new DI._

 _Sincerely,_

 _John Watson_

* * *

 _ **Dear John,**_

 _ **I find your letters fascinating and I suppose it would please you to know that you are only person in my life that fits the generic definition of a friend.**_

 _ **The samples that you sent were indeed helpful and the new DI has seen the light. I am working a case now. My first homicide investigation. I just need evidence now to prove the chain of events. Man cheating on his wife with the housekeeper. Wife kills him in a jealous rage. Not terribly interesting at all really.**_

 _ **As for the bear thief, he suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and wanted an entire collection of a specific line of bears, unfortunately, he didn't have the funds to acquire them in a legal fashion. As I said the case was rather dull.**_

 _ **I enclosed a sheet of questions. Fill it out if possible.**_

 _ **Signed,**_

 _ **Sherlock Holmes**_

* * *

 _Dear Sherlock,_

 _I am proud that you consider me a friend and that I have not bored you to death with my letters._

 _The bear case sounded hilarious by the way. Fudged a few details and told the story to some of my mates, they loved it. I want to hear about more of the cases that you have taken._

 _As for the question sheet, I enclosed it with my letter, although, what the most common first name on the base is, seems like a rather odd question._

 _Anyway, I'm not feeling to well so I will end here this time. Also don't worry, but I won't be able to write for a while, things are getting a bit hectic over here._

 _Your friend,_

 _John_

* * *

 _ **Dear John,**_

 _ **The question is very relevant.**_

 _ **I await your next letter.**_

 _ **By the time you write me again I should have some interesting cases solved.**_

 _ **Your friend,**_

 _ **Sherlock**_


	3. Waiting on love

It was more than a month before Sherlock heard from John again, but after than the letters were sent back and forth just like they had been in the first couple of months. They passed four years in this way, sharing jokes and commenting on the cases Sherlock had solved.

It was sometime around the second year of correspondence that Sherlock had let slip that he had become addicted to drugs. Sherlock still remembered the letter than John had sent him when he had learned of Sherlock's habit.

 _Sherlock,_

 _Stop. Tell me when you do and I will start writing to you again._

It was short, not even signed, and Sherlock was surprised how much it had hurt. He sent several letters after that, but John never replied. It took him several months, but he got clean and sent John proof to show that he wasn't lying to him. John's next letter had been written in shaky handwriting and Sherlock could hardly read it.

* * *

 _Sherlock,_

 _Thank goodness that you have stopped. It was painful for me not to respond to your letters, but I couldn't go through this with you too. Addiction has a way of killing people and with all the death over here I can't stand to lose someone to an addiction._

 _I know that you could have easily sent false proof, but I need to believe that you have been honest with me. Please don't give me reason not to trust you._

 _Did you know when times get really rough, I think of that day at the park and how happy I was? I hold on to that memory and it gets me through the days. When I wasn't writing to you it had begun to fade and I wondered if..._

 _Never mind, just stay as safe as you can. Please._

 _Your friend,_

 _John Watson_

* * *

When John was forced to take leave Sherlock was usually caught in some inescapable situation (kidnappings and the like although he never told John that, since it would only make the man worry.) They had met briefly during two of his leaves, but the leaves were short, barely a few days, and they hardly got the chance to do anything before John was returning to the war zone.

Around the end of the forth year there had been a lull in communication due to increased activity in the area that John was stationed in.

Sherlock was at a crime scene and was clearly in his element. There was a triple homicide and there was seemingly no evidence to be found. It was also extremely close to the NSY. It was Christmas to him. Now if only that idiot with the radio would shut it off he could solve this crime.

He made his way over to the man cursing him with every step for ruining his concentration. He could hear Lestrade yelling at him, but he paid no attention to the DI. The sports broadcast had been interrupted to announce that there had been an explosion, several days ago, that had killed the members of a patrol unit in Afghanistan.

Sherlock's world seemed to stop. For the past six months, having saved enough money from his job and getting on the payroll as a consultant at the NSY, he had been renting a flat on Baker Street. He hadn't realized it at the time, but he had set up the flat in such a way that he felt it was almost a mixture between himself and John. He had only realized it after buying a brand of tea that he knew John favored, he knew so many things about John. Now John would never know about how deep Sherlock's affection for him ran, how he was affected just by a letter sent from a war zone. They had never even discussed where they were headed as far as their relationship was concerned. They were friends, good friends, but there was the potential for so much more. There _had_ been the potential for so much more. Now he would never know how John felt. John would never know how _he_ felt.

Sherlock swallowed against the intensity of emotion that was bombarding him at the realization that John was gone. His only friend, gone. These feelings were made even more potent because he hadn't realized their depth until this moment. His mind was shutting down, protecting him from this pain. A hand touched him and he drew back as though it had burned him. What right did the world have to exist after it had stolen someone that really mattered? His eyes moved to Lestrade's face and he easily read shock, confusion, and concern in his features. Lestrade was speaking, but no sounds were reaching him. The ground felt unstable beneath him, breathing was more challenging than any case had ever been.

He just wanted everything and everybody to go away; for the world to be as empty as it felt to him, and then, suddenly, it was.

* * *

"Is he alright?" Sherlock heard someone ask with concern.

He was waking up and he didn't want to be. He could remember that something bad had happened, hut he couldn't remember what. He didn't want to remember.

He decided to focus more on where he was as a distraction. He wasn't at the crime scene. He knew that since his body was laying on something soft, likely a couch. His head was laying on someones lap, and he found that odd. The only one he would think to lay like this with was John.

The memory of what he had heard hit him as soon as he thought of his friend. He trembled, feeling once more as though he were coming undone.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock debated opening his eyes for this voice. Lestrade was important to him, so with reluctance he chose to look at him. The relief he saw in his eyes was obvious.

"What happened?" the man asked softly. Unknowingly, the question sent Sherlock into another downward spiral.

Sherlock didn't even know he was crying until he was wrapped in an awkward hug. It said a lot that it is only awkward due to the position that he and Lestrade were in.

All he could say was, "he's gone."


	4. A solider comes home

After Lestrade had taken him home, Sherlock laid on his couch and simply tried not to think. He wished that he could lose himself in a drug induced stupor, however, he knew that he couldn't. Not only would he lose his consulting position, it would take away the one thing that John had ever asked of him, and he could not allow that.

For a week he simply was, he hardly ate or drank, hardly moved at all. Lestrade came around to check on him, as did his landlady, and his brother. None of them ever stayed long, he was never in the mood for conversation, but they brought food with them, sometimes a sandwich, other times a soup.

By the next week, he was forcing himself back out on cases. He threw himself into investigations, and while he could see that Lestrade was concerned, the man let him.

* * *

"Suicide," Sherlock concluded.

"Can't be," Anderson objected, "she had ten stab wounds."

Sherlock didn't even bristle at him, didn't call him names, just simply explained, and walked away. Suddenly, he stopped moving. "Not possible." he gasped. Even as he denied it he was running, his eyes didn't believe nor did his mind, but his heart _had_ to.

"Hi," John whispered.

"How?" Sherlock asked even as he cataloged everything about him. Just out of the hospital, injured shoulder, limp is psychosomatic, tired. It was an information overload, but one that he welcomed.

"Your brother picked me up from the airport," John said, misunderstand Sherlock's question. "Terribly nice of him I suppose given how he normally treats people." John mused.

"I thought you were dead," Sherlock whispered, still not quite believing he wasn't hallucinating. Before John could answer Sherlock kissed him.

When they finally pulled apart, John was blushing. "Well I guess that answers where our relationship is heading," he said. Then, he realized what Sherlock had said. "You thought... Oh god- I'm so sorry Sherlock. I didn't- After my unit fell under attack, I got shot- I should've called or something."

"No it's-"

"It's not fine. I worried you. I was so happy to see you that I missed so many signs I should have noticed as a doctor."

Sherlock knew the signs he was speaking of. "You can nurse me back to health, if you want. I've moved into a little flat on Baker Street, two bedrooms, tea in the cupboard."

John pretended to think about it. "Well I suppose that tea is a nice perk."

It was only when Lestrade cleared his throat, that John remembered they were surrounded by police, he blushed again, and closed his eyes in embarrassment.


End file.
